


i'll find my soul as i go home

by freloux



Category: Edgar Allan Poe's Murder Mystery Dinner Party (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8607802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freloux/pseuds/freloux
Summary: "So, what, lady ghosts are outside your wheelhouse?"





	

Kissing H.G. isn't what she thought it would be like. She's not sure _what_ she thought it would be like, but certainly not like this. His lips are kind of plush - is plush even a word, a word that can be used to describe this? This softness, smoothness, that happens to slide really well against hers. Tongue, hot wet skin, shivery. Alive. He tastes a little like the soup they had earlier, but somehow sweeter.

They were squeezed together in the attic - it's her jam, after all - and this just kind of...happened. He was talking on and on, something about electric transfusions and reactions. She wasn't really paying attention: somewhere along the way she just started staring at his mouth, the way it forms words. His desire to solve things, figure them out, save the day even if it's from a quiet little corner. Listening to his soft voice that's got just enough of an edge underneath that it makes her curious, makes her wonder, makes her imagine.

It's possibility more than anything else. A hesitant pause where he caught his breath. A gap, an opening. In that moment, there was another kind of charge. H.G. looking back at her. Maybe studying her mouth, too.

So before he could launch into the next thought, Lenore leaned over and kissed him, and now here they are.

He's not a bad kisser, really. Eager. And, it seems, perfectly willing to let her take the lead. She's kind of eager, too. They kiss for awhile, a bit awkwardly: there's some kind of device that separates them at waist-level so they have to keep leaning forward to respond to each others' kisses. Lenore grabs at his biceps for stability, but he doesn't hold her back. Maybe he thinks she's going to float away. (Which wouldn't be too far off - the way he's kissing her makes her feel like she could.)

Finally, H.G. pulls away. "You're warm," he says in that soft little voice. "I wasn't expecting you to be warm."

He flicks his eyes up and down her body: studying, examining, categorizing. Cross-checking.

"What were you expecting?" Lenore wants to ask it in her usual sarcastic way. It comes out strange instead: kind of hopeful, maybe?

She doesn't care about people, remember? So why does she have this feeling in her chest? Lenore puts her hand over where the feeling is coming from, trying to ignore the way H.G. is watching the gesture as if he wants it to be his hand instead. There's a weird humming underneath her fingertips. A heartbeat. She hasn't felt a heartbeat in who knows how long. It makes her start breathing hard, reeling.

Ok, so now she knows what the feeling is - if only she could calm down about it. It's just so weird, on top of the giant mountain of weird that has been tonight. (Seriously. The soup.) But Lenore still can't figure out why her heart has kickstarted again. And why is her face getting all hot, and why is her voice so squeaky and unsure? It must be the stress of the night, the way it's been one horrible, horrifying thing after another without any pauses in between.

No, it's the attic. That's probably it. It's too warm in here, and now much too crowded with all his knickknacks and gewgaws and whosawhatsits that are, like, everywhere. In her space. Her jam getting remixed. Lenore isn't sure if she wants to break up all the crap - throw that mess of wires and whatever else this stuff is across the room and watch them scatter uselessly - or just hug them all close and learn their names like they're pets since they belong to H.G. and he probs treats them that way, too.

"I don't know," H.G. says. Now he's pacing, walking back and forth over the squeaky floorboards. The device is still separating them and it makes Lenore suddenly, weirdly, wish that they weren't so far apart.

He stops to start picking at another (different) mess of wires. "I've studied ghost biology and..." He returns to her and gives her that analyzing gaze again until Lenore chooses a very specific, non-H.G. place in the attic to look at. (The way he's been looking at her this whole night has been flattering, but now it's just doing things to her new heartbeat that feels both really great and really strange at the same time.) "When I saw you, it kind of dashed all of my theories. I'm operating without a net, here."

"So, what, lady ghosts are outside your wheelhouse?" There, that's more her style. But that doesn't work, either, because it makes H.G. do this sad horrible scrunchy thing with his face. And it's scared him away, too, because now he's sitting next to one of his other contraptions, hunched over and staring at his hands.

Maybe she's operating without a net, too. Part of it is just getting used to having a heartbeat again: a weight inside her chest that's pumping steadily.

"Hey, it's ok," she says, and sits down next to him. That might not have been such a good idea because this space is even tighter. They have to sit really close to each other. There's a little bookshelf thing at her back and he's sitting in front of a box of...ok, she legitimately doesn't know what they would be, but they seem science-y so she'll just trust H.G. on that one. Trust, that's an interesting word.

Either way, Lenore has to keep adjusting herself so that her dress still sits in a way that makes her a lady ghost and doesn't, like, show everything.

Except the adjusting ends up so that she's right...not on top of him, exactly, but very, very close. He swallows, about to say something, but she just kisses him again. She's getting kind of tired of him talking. This seems to be a good way to shut him up.

She catches his bottom lip and sucks it into her mouth, biting a little. This heartbeat thing is really getting to her. And now it seems this heartbeat has traveled lower still so she's throbbing wetly between her legs. That's a new kind of feeling as well - distantly familiar, never acted upon - but she's gonna just go with it because it feels really good.

"I'm," H.G. says quietly against her lips. "I think - I think I know what's going on."

"Mmm?" Lenore asks, a bit annoyed that he keeps cutting this off.

"Yes. You're - you're coming back to life. In a ghost kind of way, it's not a real heartbeat, it's just a response to..." H.G. jumps up excitedly and hurries over to another bookshelf where there are probably a hundred zillion different thick books that look totally boring and totally interesting at the same time. Mostly because he seems interested in this stuff, so Lenore feels like she should be into it all, too. No, not just that - she wants to be into it, to understand that nerdy realm he comes from.

He's got one of those books in his hands now. H.G. has really nice hands, Lenore notices. There's something about the way he holds that book: sometimes tapping the cover while he flips pages and strokes them smooth.

It's distracting enough that she almost didn't hear him. "Hey - what? I'm _what_?"

"Yes! Yes!" H.G. says, dropping the book and grabbing for another one before dropping that book, too. He lets out an exasperated sigh. "Where did I put...?" Rustling pages, almost frantic muttering - "Aha!"

And then he stops.

"What?" Lenore asks flatly, sitting with her hands folded together on her lap.

"I - " He looks at her, down at the book, back at her. "Oh."

"What?" Lenore repeats.

"You're. The reason you're coming back to life is because of me. Or rather - " H.G. pauses, looks back down at the book like he's trying to find the script for what he's saying next. "The way you feel about me. And the way I feel about you."

"How do you feel about me?" Lenore asks. Soft, not insistent. Innocent. Just wanting to know. Although there's a part of her that maybe already knows the answer but doesn't want to believe that it could be true.

Instead of telling her, H.G. sets the book aside, very gently. Sits back down next to her, very gently. Kisses her, very gently. But sometimes Lenore doesn't want to be gentle. And right now she holds onto him, tight, wanting to stay like this for as long as she can. She can feel his heartbeat, now, too, as it knocks hard against her chest. He holds her back so they're hugging, like they've made their own little safe world here where nobody can get them.

Lenore doesn't want to be the one to stop this, just as it's getting even more real. But there's something else she has to know. "How long will this last?" she asks.

"I don't know," H.G. admits. "But isn't it kind of great right now?" He smiles at her lopsidedly, and it's so cute that she has to kiss it. Yeah, it's pretty great.

She could probably kiss him forever, really, but that warm, wet feeling between her legs is starting to come back and it's getting super distracting. "I'm. There's something." Lenore doesn't know how to put it. "Can you tell me what this is?"

"What what is?" H.G. asks, confused.

Lenore breaks off their hug so now she's got one hand on his arm and one wrapped around his wrist. She guides his hand up under what seems like miles and miles of dress fabric. When she first picked out that dress for tonight, it seemed like a perfect idea since it's super flattering. (Although she knows she looks great in pretty much anything.) Now, though, it's just in the way and it's like it takes ages for her to help him find her underwear. Their hands are cupped together over the fabric. She's just breathing, and he's breathing too, if a little unsteadily.

"You're." He's blushing. She hasn't seen him blush before. And it's kind of (more than kind of) unfair because even that is cute too. "It, um."

"Is it ok? Oh my god, am I, like, dying again or something?" Lenore asks.

H.G. laughs but it's not a _haha_ kind of laugh. It sounds a little hysterical, actually, as if he is in fact way outside his wheelhouse. "No, you're not dying again. At least I don't think you are."

Lenore squirms against their hands. "Can you just make sure that I'm ok, though?" Because she likes the way his palm is cupped against her, but it still doesn't feel like enough.

Pulling up her skirt is a bit of a production, but eventually they manage. He shifts a little so he's leaning against her more heavily. She can feel his arm, the one she's holding, quiver because he's pressing his hand into the floor for support. His other hand is nestled under hers again, now slowly massaging her. The fabric is starting to slide wetly and she's got this building warmth, building pleasure, just from the way H.G. is stroking her. "You ok?" he asks. His breath is kind of warm and wet, too as he exhales softly against her neck.

"Y-" Lenore can't even really form words right now. The only thing that makes sense is panting whimpers. She's more than ok, really - probably the most ok she's ever been in her not-quite afterlife.

H.G. seems to figure out what she means, though, because he helps her pull her underwear down so he can touch her for real. A bit clumsy, but once again following her guidance as she figures out what it is she wants. She grips his wrist tight, then tighter still, as he starts to stroke her. Deep and deliberate movements that continue until she's the one quivering. Fluttering against his fingers, sticky sliding.

He gives her a minute to process what just happened. It's like something new opened inside her, a space built just for him. She just looks at him for awhile until her heartbeat returns to normal. Or as normal as it can be, considering he's the one who brought it back and revved it up. H.G. slides his fingers back out of her and sucks them off as if curious. "You taste. Hmm." He doesn't elaborate but that lopsided smile comes back so it must be something good.

Then he goes back to business a bit sooner than she'd have liked. "We don't really have much time."

"I know." What Lenore really should be doing is pulling her underwear back up from where they're tangled at her knees and then fixing her dress.

What she does instead is tug H.G. closer. Their lips slot together again, seeking out patterns that are familiar and sure. When her tongue meets his, she finds that he still tastes like soup, but now with a trace of something other, something tangy sweet. Herself.

They kiss and kiss. Completely losing track of time and not caring. Lenore keeps hugging him, and he hugs her back. Somehow his hand wanders, and hers does as well - brushing against skin that's firm beneath his trousers. It's his turn, then, to say what he wants. He's a bit formal about it, but mostly shy. A simple request.

Between the two of them, Lenore guesses that there are probably a zillion buttons. They have to keep stopping and restarting the whole process, just because kissing is really kind of important right now. His waistcoat, her dress, shoes, his shirt. It all seems to come off in the wrong order, but eventually they're in the right place. Fumbling into position - did people always have so many elbows and knees, so many sharp angles?

When he's finally inside her, it's with the same kind of shuddering stop-start motions that have comprised this entire moment together. Lenore keeps her thighs tight around him, wanting to hold him in place so she doesn't forget how this feels. (She knows she won't, but still. It's the principle of the thing.)

The floorboards creak underneath them as they move together. Every so often they'll stop. Breathing hard, listening carefully. At least they're half-hidden behind this - seriously, she'll have to ask him sometime just what this device actually is. Lenore isn't sure she'll remember to, though, just because it's so hard to even remember her own _name_ right now. It's incredible, to feel his pulse inside her. Something so human and real that's calling up her own human responses.

"How - " he pants, "how come you can still hold onto me and not disappear?"

"Concentration," Lenore responds, smirking.

H.G. kisses her smirk, and her neck, and her shoulder, everywhere within reach. She reaches up from holding onto his own shoulders to ruffle his hair. He smells nice. Musk, plus something sort of ethereal she can't place which is surprising because she's spent a lot of time in ethereal places. How many small details make up a person. Lenore laughs at the thought of it. He looks down at her, concerned.

"Don't worry, Goggles, I'm not laughing at you," she assures him.

They laugh together, then, sticky and sweaty and awkward, until the laughing turns into urgent little moans. H.G. isn't so polite, now: he's busy describing her, who she is, how she feels to him. His voice has lost that soft tone and is now fully buried in that edge of something else, something that sounds deep and rough as he whispers into her ear.

"I'm - I'm - " he says, then, and Lenore feels it, whatever it was that he's unable to say as he gasps and shudders. Warm, wet, sticky. Something of his to fill her up, another detail to hold onto and remember.

Because even if this doesn't last, even if the next shock is around the corner, this really was kinda great.


End file.
